امیر صادقی
Member
Penelope Plumb
My children are raised, my old horse is buried, I have retired from teaching art. I live on the shore in the woods of Deer Isle Maine with my two minis, where I watch the sun rise over the islands. I do not paint the beauty around me. Over the years, the horse has crowded out all other imagery, and I find myself categorized as an equine artist. Abstract or representational, the imagery excites me.
I look out my studio window and see two beguiling beings looking in. My heart stirs. I chop and toss out an apple and watch Chipotle Rose and Adobe Mae rump each other out of the way to get more than the other. I walk to the paddock with my coffee and go nose to nose with my minis. I’ve had my kisses in life but there is nothing like the animated nuzzle of those tiny, shaggy muzzles.
I ask -- Can one really set one’s spirit free with the image of a horse? Perhaps, for a moment.
My children are raised, my old horse is buried, I have retired from teaching art. I live on the shore in the woods of Deer Isle Maine with my two minis, where I watch the sun rise over the islands. I do not paint the beauty around me. Over the years, the horse has crowded out all other imagery, and I find myself categorized as an equine artist. Abstract or representational, the imagery excites me.
I look out my studio window and see two beguiling beings looking in. My heart stirs. I chop and toss out an apple and watch Chipotle Rose and Adobe Mae rump each other out of the way to get more than the other. I walk to the paddock with my coffee and go nose to nose with my minis. I’ve had my kisses in life but there is nothing like the animated nuzzle of those tiny, shaggy muzzles.
I ask -- Can one really set one’s spirit free with the image of a horse? Perhaps, for a moment.
